Page 12 of Sword & Sacrifice

“Fucker stepped right over me,” Dresden growled. “Left a pile of corpses behind and didn’t even thank them for their service.”

Archer’s jaw clenched. He knew it was unlikely that Varro had died in the explosion meant to rescue him, but Archer had hoped for some lingering injuries at least, something to slow the bastard down and make him lay low for a while. As it was, Varro could regroup with the soldiers loyal to him and attack the capital city again while they were still reeling from two tragedies.

Dresden’s breathing eased as he fell back into an uneasy sleep. Archer wouldn’t get any more answers from him today, but he’d gotten the confirmation he needed.

Standing up, Archer looked down at the broken soldier and silently vowed to him that the soldiers responsible would meet a worse fate.

Chapter Seven

One of the first things Valerian learned in his mercenary days was to know his prey before beginning the hunt. Normally, this involved a combination of research and observation. Since the only knowledge he could access was his own, and he’d never encountered this kind of magic, research wasn’t possible. He would have to stalk his prey through the mind forest, which presented its own dangers when the terrain itself was hazardous, constantly trying to trap him in his dark past.

I’ve already lived it once; I don’t have any desire to live it again. Admittedly, there were some memories he wouldn’t mind revisiting, but those were few and far between. His back still ached, as if the long-healed scars had reopened. If he had to relive every one of his scars, he wouldn’t be in any shape to face a single spider, let alone their master.

He found himself constantly jumping over roots, ducking branches, and dodging trunks that appeared in his path with the blink of an eye, all while trying to follow the spiders weaving their webs in the canopies. Following a specific spider would be useless. Although they were distinguishable sizes, they scurried through the shadows and foliage too quickly. Tracking down a specific prey was less important right now. That would come after he whittled their numbers down. For now, the abundance offered him plenty of targets to choose from.

Anytime he lost sight of one, another climbed into view.

The spiders ignored Valerian in favor of converting the trees—his trees—into their own little home away from home. Unlike him, they could interact with the forest without being involuntarily dragged into a scene, crawling up and down the mirrorlike bark with no ill-effects.

So how did one end up in that memory of the contract? It must have been a deliberate choice, but why? To gather information for Alistair? To spread their webs to deeper parts of Valerian’s mind?

The only way to find out would be to follow one in. How could he manage that without being forced to reenact the memories? Both times, he had only a few flashes of clarity at the end. He might gain more with practice, but who knew how long that would take, how many memories he would need to wade through.

Time had no meaning in the forest. The webs blocked out the sky, and even if they didn’t, Valerian suspected there would be no sunrise or sunset. Aside from his aching back, he experienced no hunger or weariness, nothing to help his internal clock adjust. He might have spent years trailing after the creatures high above him, or only ten minutes.

Finally, he watched a spider crawl down a trunk. One glimpse showed him a memory he knew well. He grimaced, determined not to fall into it. Instead, he watched from afar, brandishing the dagger any time a root came too close. Cutting it would probably hurt him in the end, but the threat made the root shy away.

He couldn’t see what the spider was doing within the memory, its form too small to track, but he could guess.

Olivia sat at the kitchen table in their apartment. Though calling it a ‘kitchen’ table was being generous, since the apartment was so small there was no distinction between the kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. The table could seat three people if they were comfortable rubbing elbows.

Since all the memories were from Valerian’s point of view, the image shifted around as he moved through the kitchen, gathering the breakfast plates he’d spent over an hour preparing. He’d cooked more often around Olivia than he ever had before or since, using the time between jobs to try new dishes. He’d loved seeing the way her face lit up when he got one right. And, secretly, how it scrunched up, her mouth screwing into a puckered point, when he got one horribly wrong. She’d always try to recover herself, but she’d been an awful liar. Every emotion, good or bad, played across her face.

Which was probably why the memory focused everywhere but her face—because he’d caught one glimpse that morning and couldn’t bear to look at her afterwards.

She had something to tell him. Something horrible, something life-changing, something he wouldn’t want to hear. While he was cooking, she’d slipped away a few times, maybe to compose herself, maybe to catch her breath. Now she sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap, back straight.

Valerian wished he hadn’t been such a coward back then so he could see her face now. See if any traces of happiness mixed with the dread.

When the spider crawled across her bodice, he almost lunged forward. He barely stopped himself in time, fingers a breath away from the bark. He withdrew his hand and clenched it at his side, watching the tiny black body crawl onto Olivia’s shoulder, where it settled in for the show.

Without sound, Valerian couldn’t tell where in the conversation they were. He had to rely on his own, non-magically enhanced memories to fill the gaps.

“Eat up,” Valerian said, voice forcefully cheerful to try to brighten Olivia’s dark mood.

She accepted each offering—fluffy scrambled eggs, slightly overcooked bacon, slightly undercooked biscuits—and placed them on her plate.

“Everything all right, dear?” he asked, his voice higher than usual from the strain of pretending her answer would be an honest ‘yes.’

Her eyes rose from the plate but didn’t make it to his face, stopping at his left arm, seemingly captivated by the bandages poking out from his short sleeve. He could have worn long sleeves to cover them, but they were in the middle of the hottest time of summer. No matter what, she would know he’d been injured again. “What happened this time?”

She used to ask similar questions as she traced his scars, full of eager curiosity for the stories behind them. Sometimes he told her the truth. Sometimes he lied. And sometimes he pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply until she forgot she’d ever asked.

Valerian expected her to act the same when he came home with fresh wounds after a mission-almost-gone-wrong. He’d spent the trip home preparing his story, putting himself in the best light and the villain in the worst. But wounds were not the same as scars. They encouraged dread and worry instead of fascination and wonder. After that, while he didn’t hide the fresh wounds, he didn’t make up stories for them either. He told her the truth, as much as she was willing to hear, and nothing else.

Her tone now was dull, as if she only asked out of duty, not because she wanted the answer.

So Valerian tailored his story to her mood. “A scrape, nothing more.” Truthfully, the skin underneath was raw and blistered, burning with every lift of his arm. She didn’t need to know that.